The Silver Sting
by Ellvanui
Summary: Sherlock and John just finished solving a case and go straight back to Baker Street. But something is not quite right. A story of mystery, friendship, deducting (and showing that some cases aren't as closed as they seemed to be). Set between "The Great Game" and "A Scandal in Belgravia". Rated for very little swearing, murder, and because there is a Sherlock in this story :)
1. Staring

_Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock,  
__nor Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock,  
nor any Sherlock :)  
I would like to, though. But that's life :D_

_Have a nice reading. ;)_

_/_

**1**

**/Staring**_  
_

"You really, honestly, _really_ had to be such an arrogant arse?"

The rainy day seemed to sluggishly darken, as the now invisible sun gave up on shining through the thick clouds and moved on to the other side of the world, leaving behind an uncanny, weak light that made the car headlights feel almost useless in the crescent dusk.

The cab, squeezing through the terrible London traffic, incapable of avoiding the rush hour peak, was slowly making its way out of York Street. On the inside, a tall man with dripping dark curls and pale complexion was staring at the window, the green-blue eyes catching brief glimpses of the street, all of them gathering as irrelevant information that he ought to delete some time later. For now, observing the dull lives of the little-brained humans that happen to be on the street was all he could do to pretend he didn't hear the scolding, short, blonde and also wet colleague that sit across him, eyeing him as if he could make him answer by sheer will.

"Are you listening to me, Sherlock?"

Ignoring the doctor's nagging, the man merely rolled his eyes, pulling his dark, damp wool coat closer to his body. He then heard a tense sight and could almost feel John's unpleasantness and he wondered briefly if that _look_ _thing_ really could make him consider answering. When he finally deviated his eyes from the busy streets, something that resembled strain in those deep blue eyes made him decide that, maybe, he should try to reply.

"It was painfully obvious, John. And the fact that a group of self-claimed _professionals_ could not exactly pinpoint the logical explanation of the displayed facts is fairly annoying.", he said, apace, giving the other man his '_the-rest-of-the-world-are-idiots'_ look.

John was staring back at him, but the sternness he had showed earlier had somehow vanished; only a shadow of it was left behind, a light reprimand keeping him from smiling despite himself: it was always like this with Sherlock – this brilliantly clever, annoying, arrogant, and unique consulting detective that came to be his flat mate and that dragged him all over London to solve cases (or, sometimes, just to use his phone).

Raising one of his eyebrows, he tried to find the adequate words.

"Yes, I know it must have been pretty obvious for you. But there was no need to bring up Anderson's poor love life, call Lestrade a dolt and make sure every person in Scotland Yard heard that their brains were a pathetic excuse for grey cells. Especially because, after that, you told Lestrade it was the lover who had done it and you simply left, dragging me to this _horrible_ weather for thirty minutes before we could get a cab."

Sherlock merely snorted, dismissingly. He tightened the hold on his coat, thinking that the temperature must have dropped significantly since the sun had set. He felt that there was something out of place, something he was failing to notice. And he surely wouldn't be able to think with his flat mate scolding continuously. But, of course, he knew that John had a point. John always had a point when it came to people.

"I had no interest since the case was already solved. Dull." And he returned his gaze to the streets once more.

Silence. Maybe John was restraining from chiding, but he was certainly mentally giving him a piece of his mind. But that was one of the many things he found himself enjoying about him – his moral, his capability of putting his principles ahead of his own interest. He was being observed, now, he knew for sure.

Sherlock broke the silence, the tips of his mouth twitching towards what John would call a half devilish smile.

"And did you see Anderson's face?"

The cab was suddenly filled with laughter.

/

When they arrived at Baker Street, the rain had blissfully come to a stop. They got out of the cab, careful not to step on the puddles left by the rainfall. John Watson pulled his wallet and paid the cabbie, while Sherlock stood just outside 221b, waiting, staring blankly at the smooth light that eradiated from the street lamps. John, waiting for the change, watched by the corner of his eye, as the consulting detective seemed to observe the lamps, and the doctor's brow furrowed slightly. He could feel something was not right, even though he could not quite put his finger on whatever it was. The cab ride had not been much different from what it usually was, but, then again, there was the stillness of his friend's gaze on the cab's window. He never recalled seeing Sherlock staring blankly at anything – this was a stare that lacked brilliance, lacked the deducting sparkle that made his green-blue eyes so startling. This was not a Sherlock Holmes' stare, mainly because Sherlock didn't merely stare, he always observed.

With growing worry, he approached the tall man, the doctor within him taking notice of the fact that his skin was too pale for his liking.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock, focused as he was (or, rather, _unfocused_) did not acknowledge John's presence until he called his name. Silently cursing himself for being caught off guard, he softened his expression before looking at the blonde doctor.

"John." He said, ere then turning towards the dark door of 221b, entering before John had the chance to say anything at all.

John stared at the open door for a little longer, before following his flat mate. Entering the gloomy hall, his vision spotted a figure half-way up the stairs, stumbling. _Stumbling_? That couldn't be right. The sense of worry grew in his chest, like something bitter tightening lightly around his heart.

"Sher…"

But Sherlock had already entered the flat. John relaxed before climbing up the ladder himself. _'Maybe it's nothing'_, he thought. But still, he was going to keep an eye on him, just in case. As he thought about it, however, he found himself chuckling.

"What's so funny?" Sherlock's muffled voice demanded from the couch were he had laid down, still wearing his damp coat, with his eyes closed. He wasn't one to sleep much, John knew, and, when on a case, he usually didn't sleep at all. It was '_dull and slowed him down'_. Much as eating, really. '_Annoying'_, as he described it. But now there was no case. Even though uncommon, it was probably a good time for the younger man to let himself fell asleep, if sleep ever came to him.

"Nothing." John smiled to himself. _'Am I not always keeping an eye on him, anyway?'_

Taking off his own wet coat, he went to the kitchen and put the kettle on.

"Tea?" he asked, loud enough for Sherlock to hear.

But the consulting detective was already sound asleep.

**/**

******Hi everyone :) This is my first ever Sherlock fanfiction. **

******Also, it is the first time I write something this big in english from the start, therefore I apologise for my errors, and if there is anything you think I must improve on, let me know. :)**

******Please review! I'll continue this story whenever I can manage :)**

******Have a nice day ***


	2. Worrying

**2**

**/Worrying**

John sat on his armchair, quietly sipping his hot ginger tea – certainly roaming all over London for almost fortnight, on and on, with little sleep, was going totake its toll on him. Leastways, he had managed to get some food on his plaintiff stomach, even if he had to listen to the annoyed remarks about _'his tedious body requirements'_ that Sherlock muttered whenever he had a break for lunch. Yes, tea would do wonders to him. And then a warm shower to doff the cold rain drops that insisted on keeping him chilled to the bones. He looked at his flat mate, still asleep on the couch, just where he had been since he had lain down.

Thinking that, as a doctor, he could not allow his friend to catch a cold, he got up in order to wake him up. Not only would Mrs. Hudson reproach them for dampening the couch (he could almost hear her voice inside his head, nagging about a '_ensanguined carpet'_, '_gunshots on her bloody wall'_ and now a '_soaked couch'_) but also, he reckoned, if normal Sherlock (as far as '_normal_' applied) was a workload, sick Sherlock was, undoubtedly, something he wouldn't want to deal with, not after a _billion_ cases in a row. He had to acknowledge that the fact that the consulting detective didn't want to follow through to the end of this last case was, as odd as it might have been, blissful.

Reaching his flat mate, he lightly touched his shoulder.

"Come on, mate, time to take off those soggy clothes."

As he had no response, John sighed, reasoning that, knowing Sherlock's abhorrence for resting and the events of the past fourteen days, he was probably craving some sleep. While that was perceptibly true, the doctor still couldn't let him kip with his wet garment. He now shook his shoulder a little firmer.

"Sherlock, come on, wake up."

When his flat mate did not offer him the sullen retort he was expecting to receive, neither did he move, the ex-army doctor swallowed hard as the feeling of worry that he felt a while ago returned to his chest. But he did not let the ridiculous emotion get his full consent. _'He's just tired, that is all.'_

"Sherlock, you can disregard me later, now wake up."

With his brow furrowed, he then gently slapped the younger man's face. He then felt it – the heat, emanating from the detective's face, a burning sensation under his touch. The doctor instincts emerged and he hastily placed a hand on his forehead, already covered in a thin layer of sweat.

"Shite."

Rapidly and without taking much time to ponder ('_Now is not the time for that'_) he shook his friend a little harder, before starting to take off the other man's still clammy coat. In the process, he felt Sherlock stirring faintly.

"Come on, you… prat." He said, some relief figuring in his words as his expression unstiffened.

Sherlock had opened his eyes, but they looked nothing like the ones the doctor had grown accustomed to. Instead of brilliant green-blue eyes, he was encountered by a greyish, lusterless gaze. He appeared startled, as if he wasn't supposed to be there, as if he had no memory of the place. John, anxious as he was feeling, placed a hand on his shoulder, trying to soothe Sherlock as well as his own heart.

"Easy, Sherlock. Look at me. No, look at me. What are you feeling?", he said as he pursued the detective's eyes with his own. The dark haired man simply stared at the blonde, his breathing labored, as if each intake pained him. This did not go unobserved to John, as he quickly took the younger man's pulse, registering its far too accelerated pace. Now unable to conceal the worrisome feeling, he steadied his voice as well as he could accomplish.

"Stay there. _Don't move_."

He rouse, determined to fetch the thermometer, a bowl of cold water, some towels and his first aid kit. However, as soon as he was on his feet, there was a whisper and something pulling on the end of his left sleeve.

"Jo…hn." He looked down to Sherlock that was feebly towing his sleeve. "Don't. Leave", came the weary request.

John felt a pang of apprehension in his midsection. That was _not_ something that he was expecting. Not from Sherlock, at least.

_'So much for being a highly active sociopath.'_

"I'll be right back".

/

The thermometer read 39,8°C. _39,8°C_. With all his medical training, John, somewhere in his subconscious self, was reprimanding himself for panicking slightly at the said numbers.  
'_Relax'_, he told himself. But there was no way he could relax. Not when Sherlock Holmes was laying on the couch with a burning fever, tachycardia and now, it seemed, some troubled breathing. He hadn't told him what was wrong, but even if he tried to talk, John wasn't sure if he would be able to manage to make any sense. He was obviously disoriented, and watching the ever-so-brilliant detective struggling to make a meaningful sentence made John feel even more uneasy. Sherlock was now muttering under his shabby breath. Having removed the heavy clothing from his friend's body, aside from his shirt and trousers, and put him in a half sitting position to help him breathe, the ex-army doctor placed a cold wet cloth on his brow, attempting to bring down the sudden fever.

_'It was not the rain that did this to you…'_ He felt helpless. If this kept going he would have to take Sherlock to the hospital. John knew how he hated hospitals, but he was getting out of options.

There was a buzz, and for several seconds he had no idea where it came from. Then he finally felt it, the small quiver inside his pocket.

"Hello."

_"John!"_, came Lestrade's voice, as if it came from a completely different reality. "Sorry, I've been trying to contact Sherlock, but that idiot won't answer. I was expecting to have his testimony by now, you know."

"Greg… ahm". _'What do I say?'_ "Look, Sherlock's ill. I don't know what is wrong with him."

_"What? Are you serious?"_

"Yeah. One moment he was fine, the next he wouldn't wake… Now he's pale as a sheet, and vaguely confused. I'm considering taking him to a hospital but you know how he is… He has got a very high fever, tachycardia and I suspect of hypovent…" John froze.

_"John?"_

"I've got to hang up, Greg, I'm sorry." He could hear the stress arising from his own voice.

_"Keep me updated. Text me if you need anything."_

"Thank you. Bye."

John hung up. He looked at Sherlock with an upset look upon his own face. It couldn't be. It _certainly could not_ be it. He _would_ have noticed. Shivering, Sherlock mumbled and tried to sit up.

"Sherlock…"

"...Going…tobeeesck."

He didn´t need to understand what Sherlock had told him to know what he had to do. In a swift motion, he fetched a bucket from the kitchen and put it in front of his flat mate in the exact moment when the detective couldn't hold the contents of his stomach anymore.

There was another buzz, this time from the small stand of the living room where he had dropped his phone.

_Is it what I think it is? MH_

Not taking the time to reply, and when Sherlock's vomiting seemed to cease, he gently held his friend's pale face in his now trembling hands and made him look him in the eyes. He _couldn't_ believe it had been a danger night. He had been with him _the whole time. _This _had_ to be something else. But then, this was Sherlock Holmes.

"Sherlock… What did you take?" His voice was as unsteady as his hands.

The feverish, greyish gaze seemed to change at the question. Sherlock focused his eyes on John and the doctor felt recognition in them. If possible, the detective appeared a shade paler, but when his voice came out it was, although weary and weak, his very own reassuring baritone.

"It was her. I… Scotland Yard."

"Who are you talking about? Sherlock, calm down. Tell me, I don't get it…" John was on the edge of panicking. Was this just another fever caused confusion?

"Scotland Yard, John." "…y should..." the consulting detective closed his eyes, letting himself fall back on the couch.

"Sherlock!"

"John." He said, is voice now barely a whisper. "Help."

**/**

**So... Here it is :) Still wondering how I am going to adress the main problem, though :D**

**I actually am liking it so far... Thank you so much for following/reading. **

**I hope I can have your opinion soon! It matters a lot :)**

**Have a nice, nice day***


	3. Revising

**3**

**/Revising**

Greg Lestrade hung up his mobile phone with a small clench to his chest (which he made his best to dismiss). The Detective Inspector then returned his gaze to the poorly ordered paperwork above is desk and allowed himself to sigh before sitting on his chair. Even though he was meant to write the assigned reports, reread some attests and catalogue God knew how many evidence, he couldn't bring his mind to focus on the task at hand. Rather than that, he found his awareness diverging from the tedious pages to reflect upon the conversation he had with John Watson just minutes ago.

Yes, he was fairly worried. It was unlike Sherlock to fall ill (although he recollected an occasion on which the self-entitled consulting detective had caught a minor cold, converting the existence of the people involved in the case he was investigating – including Greg himself – into a living _hell_). He always appeared to be above all that… sentiment, pain, illness, care. But Greg recognized, even though he kept his judgment to himself, that there was humanity inside that sociopathic shell. He had seen it, even if nobody else we worked with was able to tell. It was the small things, he came to realize, that made Sherlock human. Small things like the violin, like his concealed concern for his landlady, like the small breaks he took for John to have lunch, even if Sherlock wouldn't have any himself. Small things like John.

The Detective Inspector acknowledged the great influence the ex-soldier have had in the younger man's life and, even if said man didn't, and would probably never declare it, Sherlock also knew and valued this friendship. Perhaps it was the ability that John had to cope with Sherlock's difficult, narcissistic personality. Perhaps it was the loyalty they progressively came to proffer one another. Perhaps it was just the fact that Sherlock's adventurous life hoarded John from his otherwise gloomy one, as much as John's equilibrium saved Sherlock from himself, bringing up the best in him. Greg observed this. Silently.

Now Sherlock had fallen ill, it seemed. Not that the Detective Inspector was too surprised: it had been a far too busy fortnight, for all of them. Not only he had to administer the admittance of three new members in his forensics team, he had to deal with ten cases in a row, eight of which required Sherlock's presence. No, Greg wasn't at all shocked; the man was human, after all. Even if he was always sponsoring his '_mind over matter_' ideals, his body would certainly succumb at some time.

Lestrade grabbed the small transparent bag containing the pointless, bloodied handmade silver pen – the murder weapon of the latter case. Thinking about such matters, he acknowledged that he should have read the signs earlier that day. It was definitely not like Sherlock to simply tell him who had assassinated the poor woman and then just let him go arrest her, without even wanting to inspect her flat himself. It was not as the case was _that_ _'dull'_, after all…

/

_"Did you really have to call that psychopath again? We can barely stand his arrogant know-it-all talk, anymore." _

_The coroner's whining was _unquestionably_ aggravating Lestrade's already questionable mood._

_"Shut up, Anderson." With any luck he would. For a while._

_At the sight of a tall man in a dark coat, followed by the always appeasing presence of his not-so-tall colleague, the Detective Inspector permitted himself a deep breath. It had been a long week, actually two weeks so nerve-racking that they seemed to agglutinate into one agonizing hebdomad, deprived of decent sleep. He needed Holmes to help him; he knew that otherwise we wouldn't see the end of it. Oh, what he would give for a cigarette, right now. _

_"Sherlock. John.", he greeted._

_"Lestrade.", was Sherlock's short reply, along with a small nod from John. They were, despite the invincibility they apparently exhibited, also tired. John had dark circles beneath his eyes, probably from concealing his work at the clinic with… well, with Sherlock Holmes. Holmes had himself a strained look, his pale skin contrasting the dark coat._

_Sherlock then moved to the centre of the living room, where there was a dead woman laying on her back, dry blood staining her extravagant shirt and plastering the long blonde hair, dark red dried puddles blighting the expensive carpet. Taking his magnifying glass, he squatted beside the body, is brain deducting the woman's life through his calculating eyes._

_"Her name is Valerie Brackenbury, 42 years old, married to Trevor Brackenbury. She was found by the maid this morning; it seems that the husband was out for the weekend, in business." Lestrade tried to remember all the useful details, but his mind felt dim and his mouth parched._

_Sherlock surveyed the corpse, his deductions rapidly flooding through his fast paced dialogue._

_"Descending from a wealthy family, by the coat of arms on the ring of her right hand, as well as some old jewellery, probably passed through generations. She was home most of the time, judging by the marks on the couch and her legs, although she still took the care to look glamorous at all times, but there is something different on her choice of clothing, it is far too formal for someone who spent most of her time home or in the gym or in the beauty salon. No, she had not yet left the house, there is nothing on the coat hanger and her shoes are too clean. She was about to leave the house for somewhere official, an office of some kind. She had an apparently happy marriage, but only apparently, dyed her hair to charm the husband, oh this is getting interesting. Close your mouth, Greg, you are making a fool of yourself. John's customary astonishment is enough."_

_Greg only stared at the consulting detective. He never ceased to amaze him. Still squatted beside the body, Sherlock invited John to take a look. As he approached the lifeless woman, the doctor voiced the questions inside the Detective Inspector's head, the usual dazzled, gleaming expression he held whenever Sherlock made his deductions._

_"And how exactly do you know that she goes to the gym? Or the beauty salon? Or that her marriage is not a really happy one?"_

_The younger man simply stared at John, then at Lestrade, and rolled his eyes. Lestrade knew what was coming._

_"How tedious it must be to have such a minor mind. Her legs, John, do you see them, or do I happen to be the only person in this room with the capability of _seeing_?" he looked around, as the living room fell silent. "She obviously worked out, and a woman of her status wouldn't jog on the street, she would go to a gym, an expensive one, that is. The woman was wealthy, John, she dyed her hair, _of course _she frequented a beauty salon. As for the marriage, t__his house is all decorated by one person only, her, of course, because who else would put flower-patterned pillows on the couch? Her husband is seldom at home, there are plenty of pictures, all of them showing her with him, but he smiles in none of them; the house is oversupplied with exclusive, expensive, useless gifts, some of them are more than five years old. A way to make up for something, a lover, probably more than one, within their time together." He roused, looking around with his sharp eyes. He then sat on the couch, dismissing and masking a wave of nausea and waited for John's judgment._

'Must be tired'_, Greg thought to himself. John, meanwhile, his back turned to his flat mate, carefully examined the body. Unlike Sherlock, even though he was scientifically accurate, he had a very humane manner of holding the dead woman's pulse, a gentle way of slowly moving her chin to access the wound on her bloodied neck as if she was, somehow, still able to feel._

_"She's been dead for little more than seventeen hours… perforation of the jugular vein. She passed out from the loss of blood, probably died within five or seven minutes after that. It was extremely precise… She would have been helpless.", he said, a note of sadness in his voice._

_"I don't get to see the reason for his presence. The _professionals_ can manage." Anderson made sure to accentuate the word "professionals", even though he said it in a low voice, talking to Sergeant Donovan, both of them with their eyes fixed on the consulting detective._

_Lestrade opened his mouth, intending to scold, but was muted by Sherlock's quick reply._

_"Of course, Anderson, because if you were ever able to see _any _reason, you wouldn't be lowing everyone's I.Q. by gabbling mindless idiocies. Now, I suggest you shut up before you expose your obviously mediocre so-called "love life" which I am certain you are blaming Donovan for."_

_The room was suddenly filled with thick air. Donovan held a vicious look, but was unable to retort. Anderson, on the other hand, held the most comical twisted face, opening and closing his mouth repeatedly before sulking, muttering something barely audible about "freaks" and psychopaths". Lestrade made his best to restrain a laugh._

_"Did you see anything, John? On the wound, I mean." Sherlock asked, not looking at the doctor, probably thinking ahead._

_"I don…" John moved his gloved hand through the nasty, cold wound "Yes, there's something here. It's a small piece of…" He took out something so small that nobody else could see from their distance. __Anderson watched in disbelief, for he had found nothing at all. _Lestrade came closer, taking a look at the piece John held. 

_"A piece of what? Looks like silver, to me."_

_"Yes, more precisely the tip of a handmade silver fountain pen.", Sherlock stated, eyeing Lestrade. "Now where is it?"_

_"Where is what?"_

_"Anderson's minuscule brain, it must be lost somewhere around here.", Sherlock said with a humourless reproduction of a smile. Then his brow furrowed. "Am I talking some language you fail to understand? The pen, Lestrade!" _

_"There was no pen." Donovan stated._

_"What?" _

_"There was no pen here. We searched the whole house. There is nothing in here resembling the murder weapon."_

_Sherlock focused his thoughtful stare in something nobody else was able to see. Lestrade assumed it was his so called "mind palace"._

_"Shut up, Lestrade." He said. "Anderson, go away."_

_"But I didn't…"_

_"I'm not going any…"_

_"Shut up! All of you!"_

_"Sir?"_

_Sherlock snorted and roled his eyes, turning around "Didn't you hear me tell you…" He stopped._

_Lestrade also turned to see one of his forensics team's new acquisition. A shy, smart girl from Bristol. What was her name? Alice? Her face was flushed and her blonde hair seemed out of place. He sighed, the girl had yet much to learn._

_"Sorry sir. Detective Inspector, sir, the husband has just arrived."_

**/**

**Well, here is the third one :) Still more to come, of course :D**

**Review, please, I hope you enjoyed it :D**


	4. Wondering

**First of all, a big****_ thank you _****for those who took their time to read/follow/review.  
****I am so glad you are liking this story so far!****  
**

**dana-san: Maybe, let's find that out! Thank you!  
****JonnySnakeSeven: Thank you so much.  
****Ani: Thank you!  
****johnsarmylady: Thank you! I'm looking forward to write more of this! :D****  
**

**/  
**

**4**

**/Wondering**

John Watson picked a cold wet cloth from the ice water bowl he had set beside the couch, gently placing it on the forehead of the shivering, mumbling consulting detective. The doctor's hands were quivering as his mind raced, regrettably not as fast as the one of the feverish man now lying down on the couch, trying to find the reasons and, more vitally, the solutions.

/

Sherlock had been drifting in and out of consciousness. After enigmatic words that the ex-army doctor did not quite comprehend, a new rush of nausea had overcome the younger man, leaving him to agonizingly spew the abrasive fluids of his already empty stomach. Feeling useless, the doctor, kneeling at his side, had held the bucket in front of him, sometimes muttering _'it's alright'_, knowing perfectly well that it wasn't. When Sherlock's stomach finally ceased afflicting him, he looked at John with nebulous, unfocused eyes, the lack of the customary brightness aggravating the doctor's concern. John placed a hand on the other man's forehead, cursing under his breath, trying to reason what he must do to bring his temperature down. But, the moment their skin made contact, Sherlock quailed, raising a feeble arm, pushing his hand away.

"No. Don't…", he said, his voice hoarse from the fever and the heavy vomiting.

"Sherlock." John couldn't hide the worry and tension in his voice. Not anymore. "Stay still. I'm going to call for an ambulance; you need to go to a hospital…"

This only seemed to stress him even more. He now held a strange gaze, eyeing John as if he wasn't able to see him, his dark curls plastered against his brow, damp with his own perspiration, shaking uninterruptedly. His voice, John thought, was nothing like the deep baritone he had grown so accustomed to. Instead, a shaky, low voice came from his flat mate.

"No… You can't do it. Not again. You know I can't stand it." And with that he made a motion to raise himself from the couch, tottering as he got to his unsteady feet. John, as worried as he was, couldn't help but to think that Sherlock was never one to do anything the easy way, not even convalesce. On his feet from the moment he saw the detective struggling to get up, John put a steady (or as steady as he was able to, giving the circumstances) hand on Sherlock's left shoulder, making the man wince as if the mere contact hurt. Withdrawing his hand, he stepped in front of the tall, swaying man, not only blocking his passage but also positioning himself to be able to hold him, for Sherlock was unbelievably unbalanced on his feet.

"Sherlock, sit down, you are in no condition to…" Said man, however, kept his hazed chatter, his words barely registering in the doctor's mind, before the punch of realization hit him.

"No, don't... Not again, Mycroft." And John froze at the senseless words. Sherlock tried to avert him once more, his bleary eyes looking at something that only the consulting detective could see, his shaky legs threatening to succumb under his weigh. John had gotten closer.

"Sher…"

He didn't finish his sentence, for something inside his chest made him go forward just in time to put his arms around Sherlock's slim form as he collapsed, preventing him from hitting his head on the stand. Maybe it was his training as a doctor. Maybe it was his reminiscing reflexes from the war. Maybe it was just because this was Sherlock Holmes.

_'Shite… shite! What do I do?'_ He gently lowered his friend to the carpeted floor, holding Sherlock's head to his chest.

_'How did he get this heavy when he doesn't even eat?'_ He lightly slapped his face, trying to wake him up.

"Sherlock, wake up. Open your eyes, come on." _'I'm calling an ambulance.'_ John stretched an arm to get his phone, noticing that he could not reach it and hold Sherlock at the same time. For three seconds he considered calling for Mrs. Hudson, only to be reminded by his own mind that the landlady would only be back from her cousin's on the following day. Sighing, he gathered all the strength he could muster, perhaps more so than what he thought he had, and pulled his flat mate up, managing to place him attentively on the couch. He then grabbed his mobile phone, hurriedly dialling 999 with trembling fingers.

The beeping sound of being put on the hold never came. Instead, an all too familiar voice spoke from the other side, a voice that lacked its usual bored, polished tone.

"Expect me in five minutes."

/

So John waited, desperately trying to cool down the feverish detective he found to be so amazing, so brilliant, the one that made him regain his meaning in life. The one so impossibly arrogant that made almost everyone call him a freak. The one that could read a person in a matter of seconds and make the cleverest man feel like an idiot. The one that was now almost as pale as the cloth John carefully placed in his forehead. It hadn't been a danger night. I _couldn't_ have been, somehow John knew that Sherlock hadn't done it. Praying for the elder Holmes to arrive as quickly as he said he would, John instinctively run his wobbly hand through the dark locks of the now half unconscious man, averting them from his drenched brow.

_'What the bloody hell is wrong with you?'_

/

There was no knock on the door, no 'excuse me'. Only the sound of hurried footsteps as four paramedics entered the flat, unceremoniously shoving the doctor aside as they hastily took charge of his unresponsive friend. Unable to speak as the worry gripped his throat like a vicious, powerful hand, he merely watched as they were reading his vitals, just as John already had done. His temperature, he could tell, had risen since he had measured it. He watched as they positioned an I.V. to his flat mate's arm, and the doctor inside him emerged, permitting his voice to come out, apace.

"He's been feverish for one hour, maybe more. He has been in hypoventilation for the last twenty five minutes, adding to a severe vomiting and…"

"Hallucinations.", said a weary voice behind him.

John turned to see Mycroft, his umbrella tapping the floor lightly, his unblemished dark suit contrasting the white coats of the paramedics. There was no sign of tediousness on the elder Homes' face, and to most people he would appear entertained by the situation at hand. But John Watson was not most people, and the fine line that he came to know as _concern_ in the older man's brow was all the indication that he needed. Living with Sherlock made him notice some things, even though not so brilliantly.

"How…? Never mind, that. Mycroft I don't know what he took, I mean... Look, I _do not_ _believe _that he took anything, and…"

"…And yet he is overdosing. I know my brother, Doctor Watson. And you should know him too, at this point". Mycroft's eyebrows were raised in an expression that John read as disappointment, and he felt something slit his heart.

John's left hand twitched, and he clenched his fist. Turning his back on the man in the suit, he watched as the paramedics put the unconscious man on a litter, carefully transporting him towards the door. Only then he was able to see that each paramedic had an earpiece. He then followed, the sense of apprehension growing inside his chest, taking the sound of Mycroft's umbrella pattering the floor as a sign that he was also following close behind.

/

The private room in St. Bart's Hospital was silent, contrasting the early moments when restless doctors and nurses had been trying to bring Sherlock's temperature down, screaming things like ' I.V.' 'cold saline', and 'tachycardia'. The dark haired man on the bed seemed stable, but not yet out of danger, the oxygen mask concealing his features but not his sweaty brow. His temperature had stuck at 41°C and the blood tests were taking too much time. Not that Mycroft hadn't put his hand on it, for after he _'had a talk'_ with the chief, all the doctors that now entered the room had pale, frightened faces, as if they were about to be fed to the lions. No, John knew this took time, but none of that knowledge succeeded on soothing his pounding anxious heart.

The blonde ex-army doctor was sitting in a chair beside the hospital bed, hearing the sounds of the monitor that he was supposed to be familiar with, but that were so threatening because it was Sherlock's overdosed heart that was being monitored. His heart sunk in his chest as he watched his flat mate's chest rise and fall with his labored breathing, so close to being… _'No, don't you even _think _about that.'_

Diverting his eyes from Sherlock's still face, he watched as the elder Holmes faced the room's only window as if the rain that now restarted to fall was, suddenly, very interesting. He then remembered why he felt so angry with the tall man. Why he felt so angry with himself.

"Don't get me wrong, Mycroft," His quavering voice sounded like someone else's. "but I _do_ know your brother. At least as well as someone aside from you can know him. I'm... I'm his friend, for God's sake, even though it's not exactly true the other way round. But I can tell you, there was no way that he could have done it today, I was... I was with him the whole time and..." John knew anger wouldn't help, but there was something in the way Mycroft's words had reached to him, something telling him that this, _this_ was _his_ fault, that he did not stop this from happening. "...And I _know_ that he would not do it." He felt himself shaking, not from the anger he tried to toss to the tall man across him. It was _fear_. But he had to believe in himself. He had to believe in Sherlock.

Mycroft turned, raising his eyebrows slightly, before considering the words he should use. Doctor Watson was, as he came to realise, far from ordinary. A man that didn't take his bribe, a man that had bound with Sherlock Holmes, a man that was his dear brother's only friend, even if little brother himself would not admit it. Not that Mycroft approved of sentiment; caring was not an advantage, as he had told Sherlock so many times when they were younger. But, somehow, John Watson was something beyond his likes or dislikes – he did more good to his brother than either of them would ever acknowledge.

"I suggest that _you_ don't take _me_ wrong, Doctor Watson. I do not blame you for my dear brother's current state. I meant to say that, as you stated yourself, Sherlock did not do this to himself."

John weakly looked into the bright eyes of the British Government. "How?". His voice was croaky, merely a whisper, as he felt lost and hopeless.

"That, Doctor Watson, I expected _you_ to tell me."

John lowered his head as he gripped his own trousers at his knees. He felt something sting his eyes, an unpleasant feeling he urgently tried to conceal. He tried hard to remember the events of that day, to remember what could have been that he missed.

Then it hit him.

/

**I hope you enjoy your reading.  
Please, review, it helps me get better at it :)**


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